


Advent XII

by Tammany



Series: Assorted Advent Stories, Christmas 2014, All-sorts, some connected. [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Extended Families, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:04:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2743715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And the evening continues. This is warmer, happier, and cozier than the last one, as Mummy and Mycroft find a point of peace and understanding to be getting on with.</p><p>The dinner is very stodgy indeed, but is also wonderful, simple comfort food the kitchen could have made in advance and left simmering/warm while they continued to prep for the feast for Christmas day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent XII

“Well, damn,” Lestrade said, looking over the rail of the mezzanine landing down into the big foyer, where Sherlock and Janine were cutting a rug. He glanced over at Mycroft suspiciously. “Can you dance like that?” he asked, voice filled with foreboding.

Mycroft fought back a grin and gave a small nod. “Mummy and Father like dancing,” he said, apologetically. “They wanted to be sure we knew how.”

Lestrade studied him, eyes narrowed. “And you were going to tell me this _when_?”

“Never?”

“Why not?”

“Well, you don’t, and it’s out of character for my cover persona—so when would it ever matter?”

“Here? At Christmas? With Sherlock and your family here? Bloody hell, Mike, the least you can do is take your mother out for a spin.”

“She prefers line dancing these days,” Mycroft sniffed. He glowered at his lover. “I do not line dance.”

“Not even Greek dancing?”

Mycroft hesitated, and sighed. “Sometimes old-style line dancing,” he amended. “It’s part of so many traditional cultures….”

“Uh-huh. Cowardly-cowardly-custard. You’re going to dance for me, you know.”

Mycroft allowed memory and anticipation to turn his eyes dark, to sculpt his smile in the shape of desire. “Oh, I already do, my dear,” he said, whispering. His pinkie finger found the edge of Lestrade’s hand, and traced inward over the cup of his palm. “I dance very nicely.”

Lestrade coughed, gasped, and then fought down a shout of laughter. “Bloody hell….”

“Mmmmmmm?”

“You’re a dangerous man, Mycroft Holmes.”

“So they say.”

“Yeah, but ‘they’ don’t know the half of it,” Lestrade said. “Gawd. Time to flee while I still can, or I promise, your tree-reveal is not happening when you thought it would.” He gave Mycroft’s hand a squeeze and rattled down the stairs, calling a greeting over the banister as he came.

“Oi, Holmes—where’d you find the pretty girl?”

“Moping in the library,” Sherlock said, smirking back up as the music ended and he casually, cockily managed a tug-and-twirl that left Janine leaning back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist. “Mycroft ruined her trip home and then abandoned the company, so I’ve been filling in as host.”

“What the lad means is he’s been chattin’ me up,” Janine said, with a grin.

“It’s working,” Sherlock said to the top of her head.

“That’s what you think, boyo. I’m leading you on, that’s all. Want to learn to dance.”

“Watch yourself,” Lestrade said as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Taking up dancing with a Holmes can lead to trouble.” He looked back and winked at Mycroft, who was trailing behind.

“You weren’t complaining earlier.” Mycroft blushed pink, but raised his chin and radiated as much dignity as he could manage. “Dinner is ready, I believe? In the breakfast room?”

“Not till I see you dance,” Lestrade said with a grin, and called into the library, “Oi, Mummy—take a turn around the floor with your oldest?” He smiled at Janine. “And if you’ll permit, I’ll kidnap you from that sorry excuse for a ‘consulting’?”

“Delighted,” she said, with a dazzling smile, as Mycroft pulled in on himself.

Mummy came to stand at the door onto the foyer. “Mikey?” she said, warily. “A dance?”

He glared annoyance at Lestrade, then gathered himself. “Why not?” he said. “After all, it’s Christmas.” Then, more uncertainly. “If you’d pick a number, Mummy?”

“Something slow and easy,” Lestrade chimed in, smiling at Janine and then at the rest of them. “Me, I didn’t have dance lessons. But I mastered swaying back and forth, yeah?”

There was a frown between Mummy’s brows, but she nodded. “I think I can manage to find something,” she said, and turned back into the library to search the net on John’s laptop. A moment later the speakers poured out a beautiful, but unsettling scatter of piano notes, and a voice sang pensively, “Christmas time is here, happiness and cheer, fun for all that children call their favorite time of year…”

“Oh,” Mycroft said, voice small.

The sound cut off. “John,” Mummy said, “I’ve set it back to the beginning. Will you start it when we’re ready?”

“Ask Sherlock,” he replied. “I’m going to be taking a turn with my wife.” The smile showed in his voice.

Sherlock sighed heavily. “Everyone expects me to do the hard work,” he moaned.

“Fibbing!” Mary caroled out. “Start the music and then take little Em around for a turn. Baby’s got new shoes, let her kick her feet.”

Sherlock chuffed amusement and retreated into the library, crossing paths with Mummy, John, and Mary on his way.

Mummy stood in front of Mycroft, eyes hesitant. “You’re sure you want to?”

He gave a crooked smile, blended love and heartbreak. “I’d be honored,” he said, trying to ignore Father leaning against the stairway smiling. He offered his arms as the music began.

“It’s slow enough for your detective and Sherlock’s girl,” she said, “but you can dress it up if you like.”

“You mean you’d like me to dress it up,” he said, voice dry. “You never do say what you really mean.”

“Nor do you,” she pointed out, amused, as he moved them into a lazy, spiraling turn, adapting a waltz-step to the music. For a moment they just spun, like the lazy snowflakes in the night outside.

“I remember watching this,” he said, softly. “You wouldn’t let us watch much telly, but you did let us watch this.”

“Well,” she said. “Jazz, after all.”

He laughed softly. “Of course. Jazz…”

_Snowflakes in the air_

_Carols everywhere_

_Olden times_

_And ancient rhymes_

_Of love and dreams to share…_

“What’s for dinner?” Sherlock interjected, as he swung in a big circle, corralling the other dancers, baby Em in his arms.

“Boiled ham and potatoes, cauliflower cheese, baked beetroot, pease pudding,” Mycroft said.

“Oh, God, I hope you didn’t pick tomorrow’s dinner on the same principles,” Sherlock sighed. “No wonder you have to fight the weight.”

“Hush, Sherlock,” Mummy said, “It’s quite lovely.” She smiled at Mycroft as he spun her out and back like a slow, graceful yo-yo. “Comfort food—I remember, now. Your favorites.”

He gave a small smile back. “Nursery food, I’m afraid,” he said, self-deprecating. “Sherlock’s right. I’m guilty of comfort eating.”

She nodded, eyes dark. “My fault, I suppose. I never could tell when you needed comforting, myself. You had to find your own methods.”

He tucked her into his arms again, and turned them and turned them. “I’m old enough to guess how hard it is to read minds,” he said, finally. “Or to know what people think when they believe they’re not supposed to tell. I suspect it wasn’t your idea for me to live out my childhood as though I were already undercover and keeping classified secrets.”

She laughed ruefully. “No. I’m afraid that was your own notion. I’m…louder than that.”

He nodded, and refrained from tart comment. After all, it was Christmas….

_Christmas time is here_

_Families grow near_

_Oh, that we could always see_

_Such spirit through the year…_

_“_ I remember the first time I held you,” she said. “Even then, you were so sober and quiet. I thought maybe there was something wrong, but it was just you—those big eyes looking out trying to find your focus, and that serious, serious expression.” She sighed, and then laughed ruefully. “Sherlock took his first breath and started shrieking before he was even all the way out, I swear it.”

“And hasn’t stopped shrieking yet,” Mycroft added, tartly.

She scowled in mock anger, but then smiled. “Well. Perhaps not…”

They let it stand.

_Sleigh bells in the air_

_Beauty everywhere_

_Yuletide by the fireside_

_And joyful memories there…_

“You loved Christmas,” she said, suddenly, surprised by her own memory. “I forgot that. You loved Christmas. I remember you standing at the top of that stair—right up there on the mezzanine—dancing in place you were so excited.” She sighed. “How did I forget?”

He didn’t say the name of the lost daughter, or acknowledge the cot death. He just said, “We moved. Then…Sherlock was born. That…changed Christmas that year. It was never quite the same after.”

“No,” she said, softly. “I suppose it wasn’t.”

The music was ending, the last skittering piano notes trailing away. They stepped apart.

“You’ve done a lovely job,” she said, then. “With Christmas. It’s impressive.”

He shrugged, trying to pretend indifference—not entirely successfully. “Just a matter of planning,” he said.

“Don’t listen to him,” Lestrade growled, coming over with Janine’s hand still in his. He looked up at his partner, and said, firmly, “You’ve put heart and soul into this, Mike. Don’t confuse her by pretending you didn’t.”

Mycroft blushed and looked away, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well…”

“Mike,” Lestrade’s voice was warning. “’Fess up.”

“Yeah,” Mary said from a few feet away, her arm wrapped around John’s waist. “You’re no better than Sherlock—and I know when you’re fibbing, too.” She smiled at Mummy. “He’s crazy for Christmas. Just doesn’t expect anyone to care.”

Mummy blinked, then nodded, thoughtfully. She tiptoed up and placed a single kiss on her older son’s cheek. “Well, he does it beautifully,” she said. “Just like when he was little, and then some.” Then she smiled, brightly. “Now—let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

The group began to migrate down the hallway from the foyer.

Father eased up beside Mummy when she trailed behind.

“I didn’t realize,” she said, softly. “I—how did I miss it?”

“Sherlock tended to drown him out,” Father said.

“Yes, but…”

“Let it go, Em,” he said. “You know now. We all do.” He smiled up at his old family home—clean and decked and festooned with greens, dazzling with all the love and fantasy Mycroft could devise. “And look at it this way: the boy’s got a real calling, doesn’t he?”

Laughing, they followed the others to their nice, comforting, stodgy dinner, beaming with Christmas cheer.

 

 **Nota Bene:** The music is the classic by Lee Mendelson and Vince Guaraldi, for the equally classic animated special, "A Charlie Brown Christmas." There are far too many good covers, but Mummy played the Sarah McLachlan version, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FBAJoF_ndbY).


End file.
